Middleworld

by J; P Voelkel

  “I’m sorry,” said Hermanjilio. “I’ve been digging out my college notes and looking through my father’s old boxes. It’s all a bit of a rush. The ancestors would have taken weeks to prepare for something like this. Would you two tidy up for me? I need to fast and meditate to achieve mental purity.”

  “Sounds like he’s going to take a nap,” whispered Max.

  Hermanjilio winked at him. “I do need to conserve my energy”—he adopted a Shakespearean tone—“for when the Sun Jaguar returns to the underworld, I must arise and gather the creatures of the night: the silent killer who ensnares, the many-footed stalker, and the sacred flying light.”

  Max and Lola stared at him blankly.

  “At sunset, I’m going into the forest to collect bugs,” he explained.

  “Why?” they asked.

  “You’ll see. But while I’m away, you need to get yourselves ready.”

  “Forget it,” said Lola. “I’m not wearing body paint.”

  “That’s only for the high priest,” retorted Hermanjilio. “You’re my acolytes.”

  “And what do they wear?” asked Lola suspiciously.

  “Tunics.”

  “I’m not wearing a tunic,” said Max.

  Hermanjilio sighed heavily. “What you fail to understand is that, unless we stop Landa, you may never see your parents again. If evil is allowed to get the upper hand, they will be trapped in Xibalba.”

  “Tunics it is,” said Max.

  “Good. Now listen carefully: collect twelve red pods from the achiote bush and six long strips of bark from the balché tree. Then crush the achiote seeds and soak them in water to make a red dye. While they’re soaking, look in my office for a bolt of raw cotton. Then sew tunics, one for each of you, and dye them red. Dye two bark strips to make red headbands and soak the rest of the bark in elixir overnight. Ideally we’d brew balché liquor in a sacramental canoe, but time is not on our side.” Hermanjilio wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, like a harassed hostess preparing for a dinner party.

  “You’re smudging your paint,” said Lola.

  Hermanjilio pointed to the edge of the forest. “Hurry,” he said. “The achiote bush is that way.”

  Then he turned on his heel, and they watched his tall red frame loping across the clearing toward the main pyramid.

  “Do you think he’s gone mad?” asked Max.

  “I don’t know,” said Lola. “But in case he’s right about the demon army, I think we should do as he says.” She cupped her hands to her mouth and roared like a dinosaur to call the monkeys.

  “Am I the only one who isn’t crazy?” muttered Max.

  “I heard that!” she said.

  Next morning, having been woken once again by Thunderclaw’s maniacal crowing, Max and Lola inspected their handiwork: two reddish tunics, two red headbands, and a bottle of pungent-smelling balché liquor.

  “That dye’s strong stuff,” said Max, surveying his crimson-stained forearms and hands.

  “I’m glad I didn’t get any on me,” said Lola, squeaky clean as usual. “I wonder what color Hermanjilio will be today?”

  When Hermanjilio arrived, the first thing they noticed was that he was still red, albeit a little streaky. The second thing they noticed was that he held a plastic bag filled to bursting with a crawling mass of bugs.

  Of the ones Max recognized, there were centipedes, ants, beetles, slugs, cockroaches, worms, maggots, and spiders of every size and color.

  “Come help me thread them onto skewers,” Hermanjilio urged him. He made it sound like an honor.

  “I’ll be right there,” lied Max. “Let me wash this dye off my hands. I wouldn’t want to contaminate anything.”

  While Max pretended to scrub, Hermanjilio grilled the bugs over the fire and ground their charred bodies into a black powder. He was in exceptionally high spirits. He even took the daily downpour as a sign that Lord Chahk was purifying the pyramid for the rituals.

  “But Hermanjilio,” Max pointed out, “it rains every single day.”

  “There is rain, and there is rain,” said Hermanjilio. When Max raised an eyebrow, he added, “As we Maya say,” and went off with a shake of his ponytail to give thanks to Lord Chahk.

  Despite his skepticism, Max felt excited, as if they were getting ready for a party. But what were they getting ready for? He couldn’t imagine what the night held in store.

  Just before midnight, Hermanjilio appeared in the clearing wearing the pelt of a huge jaguar over his loincloth. The pelt was a little moth-eaten and had obviously been handed down through generations, but it was no less fearsome for that. The creature’s snarling head rested on Hermanjilio’s head, and the rest of the pelt flowed over his shoulders like a cloak. He had applied more thick red body paint, and he wore a flamboyant creation of feathers and jade beads around his neck.

  They began the dizzying climb to the top of the pyramid.

  As Hermanjilio checked over his basket of ritual paraphernalia, Max and Lola put their tunics on over their jeans and fixed each other’s headbands.

  “Here,” said Hermanjilio, passing Lola a small drum to sling over her shoulder.

  “I can drum,” Max volunteered.

  “You take this,” said Hermanjilio, ignoring Max’s percussive talents and handing him the cage with Thunderclaw.

  With a jungle moon shining down and the night birds shrieking and wailing like ghosts, they began the dizzying climb to the top of the pyramid. Chulo and Seri tried to follow, but Lola kept shooing them back. Eventually, Hermanjilio tired of the commotion and signaled her to let the monkeys come.

  That was all they needed, thought Max. Now they really looked like a traveling circus. Hermanjilio in his red paint and jaguar pelt, Lola with her drum and her monkeys, himself with a chicken in a cage. What a bunch of clowns.

  Eventually the motley procession reached the top platform.

  It was completely bare apart from a large stone bowl, which rested on a thick stone column. Around the column was carved a strange creature that was coiled like a snake but feathered like a bird. The creature’s wide mouth gaped open, revealing two sharp fangs. Max couldn’t help thinking that Chulo would fit beautifully between its huge stone jaws.

  “Is that a snake or a bird?” he whispered to Lola.

  “It’s K’uk’ulkan, the feathered serpent.”

  Hermanjilio built a small fire in the bowl and stuck candles on the body of the snake to form a ring of light around the pillar.

  “Here we go,” he said, raising his arms. “Fingers crossed.”

  “Do you know what you’re doing?” asked Max.

  “Relax,” said Hermanjilio. “I have a good feeling about this.”

  “I have a bad feeling,” said Lola. “Summoning the spirits could be very dangerous. I think we should stop right now.”

  “It’ll be fine,” Hermanjilio reassured her. “I studied this ritual in college, remember? Of course, we don’t know the actual words the ancestors would have spoken, but we’re fairly sure they used ground-up bugs, copal incense, and human sacrifice.”

  “Human sacrifice?” repeated Max weakly.

  “Hermanjilio,” said Lola, “you weren’t planning on doing any sacrifices tonight, were you?”

  “Of course,” said Hermanjilio.

  Chapter Eighteen

  THE CHICKEN OF DEATH

  Run for it!” screamed Max, jumping up and pulling Lola with him. Hermanjilio caught them both by the arms and held them in an iron grip.

  “Are you mad?” he said.

  “Are we mad?” said Max. “You’re the one who’s planning to sacrifice us.”

  Hermanjilio rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Of course I’m not planning to sacrifice you. That’s why we brought the chicken.”

  “Not Thunderclaw—?” began Lola.

  “It is his destiny. This is why Chan Kan sent him. Besides, it is considered a great honor to be chosen for sacrifice,” Hermanjilio assured her. A tear rolled down her
face. “Thunderclaw is a warrior, Lola. He wouldn’t want to end up as chicken stew.”

  She nodded mutely.

  “Will the gods accept a chicken?” asked Max.

  “Unless you would like to volunteer …”

  He shook his head.

  “Then a chicken will have to do. Remember, Thunderclaw is no ordinary fowl. Chan Kan said he was a great champion, a fearsome fighting cock.”

  They regarded the wretched little creature, huddled in a corner and trembling in his sleep. “He doesn’t look very fearsome right now,” said Max.

  “Give me a break,” sighed Hermanjilio. “As I understand it, there isn’t a precise science to these rituals. They’re more about showing swagger and confidence. The Maya gods are like children. They like costumes, special effects, and plenty of action. We just have to put on a good show.”

  “You’re bluffing it?” said Max incredulously.

  “In a manner of speaking. And now, if there are no further questions, please sit down. I’d like to get started.”

  Hermanjilio opened several little packages of incense wrapped in banana leaves and threw them into the fire. The flames flared up and cast an orange glow on his face. Pungent smoke billowed out. He began swaying back and forth, chanting in Mayan. Then he took a handful of the black powder made from ground-up bugs and threw it into the flames. It sent crackling sparks flying in all directions.

  More incense.

  More smoke.

  More black powder.

  The smoke was now so thick that Max found it hard to breathe. Through the black clouds, he could see Hermanjilio pouring his blood concoction into the stone snake’s mouth before he slotted the Green Jaguar between its gaping jaws.

  At Hermanjilio’s signal, Lola tapped the drum in the rhythm of a heartbeat.

  Tum-tum, tum-tum, tum-tum.

  It carried over the jungle and echoed back again. It reverberated through Max’s body, and his own heart followed the rhythm.

  Tum-tum, tum-tum, tum-tum.

  Hermanjilio poured balché liquor over the fire. Blue and green flames flickered and hissed like snakes’ tongues.

  Sitting down between Max and Lola, he pulled out a ceramic flute and played a simple melody, the same four notes over and over. It was a hypnotic sound that seemed to work on the brain like a drug. The heartbeat of the drum and the song of the flute played faster and faster, over and over.

  Soon Max felt a crackling energy around him, as if the night air had become electrically charged. The Green Jaguar started to glow. As it grew brighter and brighter, the snake began glowing, too, beginning with the head and spreading down the back, feather by feather, coil by coil, until the whole serpent radiated a green light.

  It moved.

  A coil uncoiled.

  Max rubbed his eyes.

  It moved again.

  “Stay completely still,” muttered Hermanjilio. “Don’t move a hair.”

  As Max watched in terror, the stone snake unwound itself from the column and slithered around the top of the platform, passing inches from where they sat. It formed its massive body into a circle, nose to tail, and shafts of light rose up, until the body of the snake enclosed a thick column of green light.

  Within the column, wraithlike images of Maya people emerged, appearing faster and faster, until the whole column writhed with ghostly figures.

  Hermanjilio cleared his throat.

  “It’s now or never,” he said, standing up and facing the column of ghosts. From where he sat, Max could see the archaeologist’s knees shaking.

  “Spirits of my ancestors, we are in desperate need,” boomed Hermanjilio in his most commanding voice. “We beseech you to help us. Send us your greatest warlords. Send us the spirits of the mighty Lord 6-Dog and his fearless battle chief, the noble Lord Kukab!”

  As Hermanjilio called out these names, the column of light grew brighter still. Waves of green flames flowed out of it, one after another, across the platform and down the sides of the pyramid. The next wave of flame was headed straight for Max and Lola. They looked at Hermanjilio in terror, but he just winked happily as if everything was normal and they were having a lovely time. Chulo and Seri inched closer to Lola and put their hands over their eyes.

  Max held his breath as the green flames licked his legs. They were icy cold. When they touched him, he could remember things he had never experienced. Disconnected images of ancient Maya life—a ball game, a ceremony, a market, a harvest, a jaguar at a water hole—strange smells of spices and fire and jungle, the sounds of battles and birds and women weaving flooded into his brain. It was as if each flame contained the soul and the memories of a long-dead Maya.

  There was a deep, rolling rumble like distant thunder, and two ghostly figures stepped out of the column. As soon as they did so, the light disappeared and the snake rewound itself around the stone column.

  One of the figures strode forward, resplendent in an elaborate plumed headdress. He was covered from head to foot in black body paint, and he held before him an obsidian sword, ready to strike. While the second figure hovered behind, the great warrior peered down at the trembling spectators.

  “Who summons Ahaw Wak Ok, the mighty Lord 6-Dog, and his fearless battle chief, Lord Kukab, to walk again in Middleworld?” he boomed.

  Mustering all his courage, Hermanjilio stood up and bowed.

  “It is I, Hermanjilio Bol, descendant of the lords of Itzamna.”

  “I will hear thy petition, mortal,” said Lord 6-Dog.

  The other figure, who’d been hanging back, now stepped forward and pointed a gnarled finger at Hermanjilio. “Where are the human sacrifices? Do you dishonor us with no suitable offering?”

  Hermanjilio’s jaw dropped open. The second warrior looked and sounded like an old woman, a cross-eyed old woman with four long gray braids.

  Lord 6-Dog turned to stare in amazement at his fellow time traveler.

  “Mother?” he said.

  The old woman nudged him with her wrinkled elbow. “Don’t just stand there; introduce me.”

  With reluctance, the king announced her to the astonished audience. “May I present my mother, Lady Kan Kakaw, First and Most Glorious Wife of the venerable Lord Punak Ha, King of the Monkey River?”

  Following Hermanjilio’s lead, Max and Lola bowed their heads.

  “Welcome back to Middleworld, Your Divine Majesties,” said Hermanjilio.

  The old woman was still looking around with dissatisfaction. “Where are the bodies, the blood, the severed limbs?”

  Hermanjilio took a deep breath.

  “Your Divine Majesties,” he began, “we would not insult you with a mere human sacrifice. To mark this most illustrious day in the history of Middleworld, we have brought a far greater tribute in the noble body of Thunderclaw, the merciless Fowl of Fear, the notorious Chicken of Death.”

  Max shot Lola a look of total incredulity. “Fowl of Fear?” he mouthed.

  “Chicken of Death?” she mouthed back.

  Hermanjilio opened the bamboo cage to reveal the scrawny, balding Thunderclaw, who was still in a dead sleep. “You are familiar with K’uk’ulkan, the serpent with feathers in place of scales?”

  Lord 6-Dog and his mother nodded.

  “Now meet his nemesis, the bird with scales in place of feathers. The Chicken of Death is a ferocious warrior who tortures humankind with his terrible shrieks. He struts through Xibalba with claws like razors, and the gods themselves tremble with fear.”

  He shut the cage door, as if to contain a mighty army.

  Lord 6-Dog raised an eyebrow. “I believe I have read of this Chee Ken in the Codex of Tikal.” He looked into the cage. “Is it true that with one slash of his talons he can rip off thine arm?”

  “As you say, Your Majesty,” said Hermanjilio solemnly.

  “And with one peck of his beak, he can gouge out thine eyes?”

  Hermanjilio nodded his assent.

  “And with one shriek, he can banish thy soul to the ni
nth level of Xibalba?”

  Hermanjilio nodded again.

  Lord 6-Dog looked impressed. He whispered something to his mother, who peered at the bird in disdain.

  “Is it not a bit small?” she said. “I would have expected something larger.”

  Hermanjilio was ready for this one. “With respect, Your Majesty, the chicken is like the scorpion: the smaller the body, the deadlier the bite.”

  “I see,” she said. She seemed to have lost interest in the chicken. “Now tell me, Lord Hermanjilio, why did you summon us?”

  “They did not summon thee, Mother,” snapped Lord 6-Dog. “They asked for my noble battle chief, Lord Kukab.”

  She sniffed in disdain. “Kukab? I could beat that milksop any day. His mother said he squealed like a stuck peccary when she had his teeth filed into points for his birthday. Talk about ungrateful.”

  “In truth, Mother, thou art the Demon of Gossip,” sighed Lord 6-Dog.

  Hermanjilio coughed to get their attention.

  Lord 6-Dog fixed him with a haughty look. “So, mortal, what besets my people in Middleworld?”

  “The evil is among us, Your Majesty. The Black Jaguar roams the earth. Soon the Undead Army will be released and the world will be ruled by Ah Pukuh, god of war and violent death.”

  “Who summons Ahaw Wak Ok, the mighty Lord 6-Dog?”

  The old woman turned to her son. “I told you so,” she said. “You should have destroyed that Black Jaguar when you had the chance—and Tzelek with it. Then we could have been sitting under a shady tree in heaven all these years, instead of freezing to death in Xibalba.”

  “Technically, we’re dead already, Mother,” said Lord 6-Dog. “But I thank thee for thy counsel. Let us hope thou wilt have less reason to reproach me this time around.”

  “This time around? You mean, we’re staying?” The old woman clapped her hands in delight. “I’ve been waiting three baktuns for something exciting to happen.”

  Lord 6-Dog bowed to Hermanjilio. “This is a worthy challenge, mortal. It will be my pleasure to lead thine armies and give them victory over the enemies of Middleworld. I stand before thee as a warrior in my prime. Show me now the body I will fight in.” He looked around the platform expectantly.