Middleworld

by J; P Voelkel

  He would have recognized the face of Tzelek.

  Chapter Seventeen

  TRICK OR TREAT

  After his ordeal in the Star Chamber, Max wanted to be alone. All afternoon, he lay in his hammock, trying to process what had happened. He couldn’t stop the images flooding into his brain. He cowered again from the hologram of the wizened old man, heard the booming of the Sun Jaguar, dodged the burning arrows, and—the image he would most like to erase—fell headlong toward Xibalba.

  He shuddered at the memory.

  The Temple of Chahk had been physically challenging, like an ancient obstacle course, but the Star Chamber had challenged his very being. His brain told him none of it was possible, but his eyes knew what they had seen. Somehow, the Green Jaguar had opened the door to another dimension where the laws of physics did not apply. It had taken the hunt for his parents to another level. Now there were no rules. Now he understood, for the first time, why people said that anything was possible in the jungle.

  But was it real? Or just a theater of tricks and illusions?

  His blood ran cold as he remembered the hand pulling him down as he fought to escape the clutches of Xibalba. He inspected his ankle. It was swollen and bruised. You could clearly see where five sharp fingernails had punctured his skin. That was real, all right.

  He climbed down the tree-house ladder and went to look for Lola. She was sitting at the table, chopping a melon.

  “Hey, Hoop. Feeling better?”

  “Not really,” said Max. He looked around. “Have you seen Hermanjilio? I want to thank him again for saving me. He was like Superman in that chamber.”

  “He’s trying to charge up his laptop so he can research all those dates. He’s convinced they mean something.”

  “Hermanjilio has a laptop? He has electricity?”

  “I told you he’s a genius,” said Lola proudly. “He rigged up a generator by the waterfall. It’s a bit temperamental, but it does the job. He hasn’t used it for ages, so he’s trying to get it going again.”

  A disheveled Hermanjilio came running through the plaza, leaving a trail of dropped tools and wires and bits of pipe. “Can’t stop,” he shouted as he passed. “I’ve got to fire up the laptop while the generator’s working!”

  Later, they took him some food and found him hunched over his laptop, studying a Maya calendar program. Books and papers were strewn around, and he was furiously scribbling notes.

  “How’s it going?” asked Lola.

  When Hermanjilio looked up, he hardly seemed to recognize them. His eyes were big and wild, and his long black hair was sticking out at odd angles. He looked like a mad scientist. “I’ve been trying to make sense of those dates in the Star Chamber,” he said.

  “I’m sure they don’t mean anything,” said Lola. “That machine was so old, I’d be amazed if it still worked properly.”

  “Then prepare to be amazed.” Hermanjilio took a deep breath. “Do you recall the first date it showed when we activated it?”

  Lola thought for a moment. “11-Thunder?”

  Hermanjilio nodded. “According to my calculations, that’s today in the Maya calendar.”

  Max whistled to show his astonishment.

  “There’s more,” said Hermanjilio. “Remember how we moved through the days until we got to 5-Death and Venus attacked us? Well, 5-Death is in seven days’ time—at which point, Venus is set to rise as the morning star!”

  “That’s incredible,” marveled Lola. “This discovery could bring in all the funding you need to finish the excavations.”

  Hermanjilio coughed in an embarrassed sort of way. “Based on these calendar calculations, I’m not sure there’s enough time for that. …”

  Lola looked baffled for a moment. Then the penny dropped. “Not you as well?” she exclaimed. “You’re talking about the so-called end of the Maya calendar, aren’t you? You’re like those hippies at the Internet café in Limón. They say there’s no point in getting jobs because we’re in the last months of the thirteenth baktun and the world is going to end. But it’s garbage. I’ve heard you say so yourself; it has no basis in fact whatsoever.”

  “Just hear me out,” said Hermanjilio. “Remember when the machine hurtled through the days until it stopped and everything went black?”

  “Of course,” said Lola.

  “And do you remember the date?”

  “4-Ahaw 3-Kankin,” replied Lola straightaway. “The day of 4-Lord in the month of 3-Winter Sun.”

  “Just so,” said Hermanjilio. “It’s the last day of the thirteenth baktun.”

  “I don’t care!” Lola was sounding angry now. “This end-of-the-world stuff is just New Age hype, and you know it. When the thirteenth baktun ends, the fourteenth baktun begins. End of story.”

  Max opened his mouth to say something, but Lola testily cut him off. “Spare me your spaceship theory, Hoop.”

  “I was going to say,” protested Max, “that Chan Kan mentioned the end of the world to me.”

  “He did?” Lola narrowed her eyes. “What did he say?”

  Max thought back to his encounter in the smoky hut. “He said that for good or for evil, the world must end to begin again. And something about destruction and dread omens.”

  Lola waved dismissively. “He always talks that way.”

  “For good or for evil, eh?” murmured Hermanjilio. “That’s interesting.” He typed something into the computer. “The gods take it in turns to rule the baktuns. It says here that Ah Pukuh is next in line.”

  Awe pooh-coo. It sounded like a cross between spitting and sneezing.

  “Ah Pukuh!” said Lola in horror.

  “Ah Pukuh?” echoed Max weakly.

  “He’s the god of violent and unnatural death,” explained Hermanjilio. “The Death Lords work for him. He rules the ninth level of Xibalba and he’s usually depicted as a bloated corpse, surrounded by dogs and owls. They say he stinks to high heaven. His nickname is Kisin, meaning ‘the flatulent one.’”

  Lola wrinkled her nose. “Do you remember that foul smell in the Star Chamber?”

  “I can’t believe you thought it was me,” said Max, pretending to be outraged.

  “It’s not funny,” said Hermanjilio, shutting his laptop decisively. “If Ah Pukuh is allowed to take charge, it really could be the end of the world as we know it.”

  “But it’s the ancient Maya world,” said Max. “It can’t affect us.”

  “It was the ancient Maya world in the Star Chamber this morning, yet I distinctly saw a bony hand on your twenty-first-century leg,” said Hermanjilio.

  Max got quiet and rubbed his ankle.

  “I need to think,” said Lola. “Who wants hot chocolate?”

  They drank it under the jungle stars. It was real hot chocolate, too, made from ground cocoa beans mixed with water, cornmeal, and chili pepper. Max sipped it tentatively. The bitter, rich, spicy drink tasted nothing like the chocolate milk they drank in Boston.

  “What a day,” sighed Hermanjilio, lying back. “How about that Cosmic Crocodile?”

  Max tried to trace the outline of the two-headed cosmic monster in the night sky. No matter how weird the Maya concept of the solar system, it was awesome to be gazing at the same stars they’d plotted on their charts a thousand years ago.

  Hermanjilio guessed what he was thinking. “Shall I tell you what the Maya saw on a night like this?” he said. “Right above us are the constellations of Turtle, Rattlesnake, and Owl. Over there, where you see the Big Dipper, we see a bird called Seven Macaw. And your Milky Way is our World Tree, with its roots in the underworld, its trunk on the earth, and its branches in the heavens. In legends, it’s sometimes called the Road to Xibalba.”

  “I think I have to go there,” said Max, “to find my parents.”

  “To Xibalba?” Lola shivered and threw another log on the fire. “Rather you than me,” she said.

  “I’ve been thinking,” said Hermanjilio. “Mortals are usually summoned to Xibalba by t
he messenger, Lord Muan. But Frank and Carla weren’t summoned, so I’m sure they’ll be released soon. It’s all a mistake. We just have to be patient.”

  “Do you know anyone who’s come back from Xibalba?” asked Max.

  “The Hero Twins?” suggested Lola.

  “But that’s a legend, right?”

  “It’s an allegory,” explained Hermanjilio. “The Hero Twins represent the sun and moon.”

  Max sighed. “There’s a thin line, isn’t there, between real and not real? Since I came to San Xavier, I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

  “Welcome to my world,” said Lola.

  “But it always comes back to the Jaguar Stones,” persisted Max. “Truth and legend, past and present, this world and Xibalba … the link is always the Jaguar Stones.”

  Hermanjilio leaned on one elbow. “If you want to understand the Jaguar Stones, you must understand the Maya worldview. We believe that all things—plants, animals, stones—have a life force. Our temples are reservoirs for all this natural energy. But it was the great king Lord 6-Dog who worked out how to channel it for the greater good.”

  Max nodded in recognition at the name. “What did he do?”

  “He united the five warring city-states of the Monkey River by giving them each a Jaguar Stone and dividing ceremonial powers between them, almost like government departments.” He drew a map in the dirt with a twig. “Ixchel in the north was responsible for culture, Itzamna at the center managed education, Chahk to the east ran agriculture, Bolon Tzakab in the south oversaw lineage, and Ah Pukuh in the west was in charge of military affairs. It was a great success. With the Jaguar Stones to help them, the allied cities built one of the most advanced societies of the ancient world.”

  “Who made the Jaguar Stones?”

  “We think they were Olmec in origin. The Olmecs preceded the Maya and were famous for sculpture. They passed the Jaguar Stones down to the lords of Itzamna, who used them to wage war on their neighbors and subjugate their enemies. Lord 6-Dog’s genius was to understand that a lasting peace would bring greater prosperity. He ruled for fifty years and was adored by everyone except his twin brother, Tzelek. When later kings were too lazy or greedy to continue Lord 6-Dog’s work, the people lost faith in them. They decided to hide the Jaguar Stones until better times—and worthier rulers—came along. But what actually came along was Friar Diego de Landa.” Hermanjilio spat into the dirt. “And the rest is history.”

  “Until now,” said Max. He watched the dancing flames in the fire and tried not to panic. “Do you still have Dad’s old journal?”

  “Strange you should ask,” said Hermanjilio. “When I went back to my tent after the raid at Ixchel, the journal was the only thing missing.”

  “Antonio de Landa has it?”

  “I assume so. But without a Jaguar Stone, it’s not much use to him.”

  Max winced. “He has the Black Jaguar.”

  Hermanjilio and Lola sat bolt upright, eyes wide, mouths open in horror.

  “How is that possible? Where did he get it?”

  “I don’t know,” said Max. “But I saw him showing it to Uncle Ted.”

  “Legend has it that the Black Jaguar was destroyed by Lord 6-Dog in his final battle with Tzelek.”

  “I saw it with my own eyes. I smelled it. It was the real thing.”

  “I believe you, Max,” said Hermanjilio gravely. “It certainly explains why Landa sent raiders to Ixchel. He needed the journal to tell him how to use the Black Jaguar.” He gazed into the middle distance, as if he were already watching the terrible events that would soon unfold. “This is what Lord Itzamna was warning us about. From the journal, Landa will know that the Black Jaguar’s greatest power is at the rising of Venus in seven days’ time. If he uses it to awaken the Undead Army, he will be invincible. Landa will bring Middleworld to its knees, and Ah Pukuh will deal the deathblow.”

  Lola sighed. “It looks like the hippies were right, after all. The end of the world is coming. What can we do?”

  Hermanjilio put his head in his hands and repeated her question to himself, over and over. Then he looked up, his eyes shining. “There’s only one thing we can do. We must use the Green Jaguar to summon Ahaw Wak Ok, the immortal Lord 6-Dog. There’s an old altar on top of the main pyramid that was probably used for just such a ritual. We must bring him back to fight for us. Only he has the power to defeat the Black Jaguar.”

  “This is madness, Hermanjilio!” cried Lola. “It’s too dangerous. You must talk to Chan Kan. There must be another way. …”

  But Hermanjilio had made up his mind. “This is why my ancestors sent me the dream. This is why Lord Itzamna entrusted the Green Jaguar to me. Don’t you understand, Lola? If good men do nothing, evil will win. I must start clearing the altar in readiness for the ritual.”

  When he stood up, he seemed like a different person. Gone was the eccentric archaeologist. In his place, tall and proud, face ablaze with emotion, muscles gleaming in the firelight, stood a noble Maya warrior. He looked magnificent. “I have found my destiny,” he said.

  And then he was gone.

  Max and Lola looked at each other.

  Somewhere in the forest, a jaguar roared.

  Max had a feeling that something important, something life-changing, something earthshaking had just happened.

  But what?

  How had he arrived at this moment?

  He tried to remember the city kid who’d stepped off the plane in San Xavier. He’d survived the grueling bus ride over the mountains, only to be plunged into Uncle Ted’s shady world of smugglers, shipwrecks, and psychotic Spaniards. What if he’d never followed the Monkey Girl … never rafted the underground river … never escaped from the Temple of Chahk … never entered the Star Chamber … never heard Hermanjilio say that his parents were trapped in Xibalba, the Maya underworld? Then again, how sane was Hermanjilio? He seemed to think he could save the world by bringing back some dead Maya king. That couldn’t be good news.

  It was Lola who spoke first. “I don’t like the sound of this,” she sighed. “Maybe we can talk him out of it in the morning.”

  Morning came sooner than they expected. It was well before sunrise when Thunderclaw began to crow—if you could call it crowing. Thunderclaw’s idea of a wake-up call was less a cock-a-doodle-doo and more a series of hideous shrieks and cackles that belonged in the sound track of a Japanese horror film.

  After ignoring the cacophony for as long he could, Max stumbled out of bed. He met a bleary-eyed Lola making her way down the tree-house ladder.

  “Thunderclaw seems to have settled in,” she said.

  “Yeah,” said Max, “let’s hope it’s fried chicken for dinner.”

  “Surely you couldn’t eat Thunderclaw?” said Lola, who’d grown inexplicably fond of the mangy little fowl. “Not now that we’ve got to know him?”

  “Just watch me,” said Max in an evil voice, before running into the plaza, calling: “Here I come, chicky-chicken, with my eleven herbs and spices. …”

  Lola ran after him, laughing wildly, and plowed straight into him when he stopped dead a few steps later.

  “What’s happened here?” he said.

  “Looks like we’ve been raided,” she whispered.

  In the early light, the camp had an eerie, deserted air. Upended boxes, crates, and files were strewn everywhere, their contents scattered on the ground. There was no sign of Hermanjilio.

  “Why didn’t we hear anything?” said Lola, surveying the mess.

  “Blame that demented chicken of yours,” said Max.

  There was a rustling of branches above them. They looked up to see Chulo and Seri whimpering and clinging to each other. Lola held out her arms to them, but they stayed where they were.

  “Something’s frightened them,” said Lola.

  “Where’s Hermanjilio?” asked Max, looking nervously around for a corpse.

  “Maybe they’ve kidnapped him.”

  “But why?”
>
  Their eyes met, and they said in chorus, “The Jaguar Stones!”

  “If Landa’s taken the red and the green stones as well, we’re in big trouble,” said Lola anxiously. “In fact, the whole world’s in big trouble.”

  “Do you know where Hermanjilio was hiding the stones?” asked Max.

  “No,” said Lola, close to tears. “I just hope he’s all right.”

  “Who?” said a booming voice from behind them.

  Their first instinct was to scream and run. Apart from his eyes, which were encircled in heavy black, the creature’s entire body was painted bright red. He wore a red loincloth, and his hair was twisted in an extravagant topknot, decorated with strips of tree bark and parrot feathers.

  “Hermanjilio!” exclaimed Lola. “You scared us!”

  Max took in Hermanjilio’s costume. “Is it Halloween today?”

  “It is like Halloween,” said Hermanjilio, “in that the forces of evil are about to run wild among us. But I doubt you’ll be getting any candy.”

  “Very funny,” said Lola. “Are you planning to get dressed for breakfast?”

  “I am dressed,” said Hermanjilio. “This is what my ancestors would have worn for the ritual. I researched ancient Maya spirit transmutation at college, but I never thought I’d have a chance to put it into action. We’ll need to create some powerful magic tomorrow night, and it’s important to get the details right.”

  “I don’t like it,” said Lola. “You’re going too far.”

  “Look at it this way,” said Hermanjilio, fixing his topknot. “If I’m wrong, this is just a fascinating experiment in living history. But if I’m right, my paint and feathers might help us bring back Lord 6-Dog. He’s the only one who knows how to fight the evil of the Black Jaguar, the only one who can save his people from a living hell ruled by Ah Pukuh and his Undead Army.”

  Lola pursed her lips. She didn’t look convinced. She gestured at the papers scattered on the ground. “Did you make this mess? I thought we’d been raided.”