Panacea

by F. Paul Wilson

  As Ix’chel stared at her, their eyes met and Laura sensed a moment of connection.

  “You really don’t believe?”

  Laura shook her head. “The whole idea is ridiculous.”

  “You do not believe … you truly don’t.” That seemed to flip a switch in Ix’chel. Her features softened. “You are a doctor who wishes to understand?” she said, brushing past Laura and stepping outside. “I cannot promise you understanding, but come with me and you will learn.”

  4

  “This is where I grow the plants,” Ix’chel said.

  She’d led Laura through one of the village’s cornfields—long ago cleared from the jungle—to a bare plot at its southern corner.

  “Where are they?”

  “Gone. I used them all.”

  Laura crossed her fingers. “And the medicine?”

  “I’ve given it all away.”

  “Nothing left?”

  “Not a drop.”

  Damn. She’d have to return to Stahlman without the bogus potion. Laura’s face must have given away her dismay.

  “There’s so many who need it here,” Ix’chel said.

  Laura was ready to turn away and head home, but the image of Tommy Cochran’s perfect knee joint flashed through her head. She had questions … so many questions …

  “How do you give it out?”

  Ix’chel gave her a long stare. “I cannot say. I will end like Mulac.”

  “I don’t want your secrets but I will keep them. I’m only trying to understand.”

  The stare continued, then, finally, a nod. “I will tell the woman who held Chaim’s heart in her hands.”

  Laura experienced a queasy epiphany: a heart in her hands … enormous significance for Mayans—no doubt imprinted on their DNA.

  Still looking conflicted, Ix’chel said, “I volunteer in many of Chetumal’s free clinics. The All-Mother leads me to the neediest and—”

  “The All-Mother?”

  “Yes, of course. The Goddess of the Earth and all that live upon it.”

  Stahlman had mentioned a pagan religion. This sounded like some sort of Gaia cult. Someone like Ix’chel, being Mayan, could step into that sort of belief system like slipping on a comfortable old shoe.

  “She reveals the worthy to me, and I sneak them a dose of the ikhar.”

  “Your medicine?”

  “Yes. The All-Mother’s name for it. An ancient word.”

  “Why do you sneak it?”

  “Because our lives are in danger if we’re caught. That is why I move from clinic to clinic so that not too many cures are in the same place.”

  “But if your ikhar cures everything—?”

  “Oh, it does.”

  “—then why don’t you reveal it to the world?”

  “The All-Mother forbids. It goes only to those chosen by Her.”

  “She tells you?”

  Ix’chel smiled. “She has Her ways … She lets me know.”

  Self-delusion … making her own choices and attributing them to her goddess.

  “And it never fails to cure?”

  Her smile broadened. “Never.”

  Impossible. But True Believers can convince themselves of just about anything. Few things are more powerful than the will to believe.

  “But without plants, how will you make more … ikhar?”

  “More seeds will be delivered.”

  “By whom?”

  She smiled. “By mail. I have a post office box in Chetumal.”

  Laura had to stifle a laugh. How mundane!

  “Where are they postmarked from?”

  “Everywhere. Usually different places in Europe. The urschell moves around because the Brotherhood wants her most of all.”

  “Urschell?”

  “You would say priestess.”

  “So this is not just a local Maya thing.”

  “Oh, no. The All-Mother is everywhere.”

  “Okay. So walk me through this. The seeds arrive and you plant them here.”

  “Yes. We must sprinkle them directly from the packet onto the ground and cover them with earth.”

  “Is there anything else in the packet?”

  “A little dirt and dust.”

  Fairy dust? Pixie dust?

  Shut up, Laura.

  “And then they germinate.”

  “When they sprout I separate them to give them space to grow. When they have flowered and begin to form seeds, it is time for harvesting. Before they drop their seeds, I pull them up by the roots and put them in an iron pot.”

  “Roots and all?”

  She nodded. “Even some of the root ball.”

  “Dirt too?”

  “Oh, yes. Grubs and worms are removed, of course, but the earth is the source of all life and part of the healing is around the roots. I then add water and boil the plants until nine-tenths of the water is gone. Then I strain what is left through three cloths. The liquid that comes through is the ikhar.”

  Laura shook her head. Stahlman’s panacea was a filtrate of plant-and-dirt soup. Yuck.

  “You do not believe,” Ix’chel said, her tone reproachful.

  “I told you that. Don’t be angry. It’s hard for the scientist part of me to accept something that cures everything. And beyond that, there must be something you’re not telling me.”

  “What I told you is true. I leave nothing out.”

  She remembered what Stahlman had told her.

  “I know a man who has grown the plants and tried to prepare them every possible way but never wound up with anything that works.”

  She shrugged. “Of course not. He needs the blessing of the All-Mother. Without that he cannot hope to succeed.”

  She could just see herself presenting that to Stahlman: You’ve got everything right except the blessing of the All-Mother. Yeah, that would fly.

  Ix’chel said, “What does the scientist in you say about Chaim? He was sick in many ways when he came to Mulac for healing. And yet he walked away cured.”

  “Mulac? But you said—”

  “Mulac was very proud of being the ah-men, the curandero. He could not accept that his sister knew more. At times, when the All-Mother told me that I should cure one of his patients, I would sneak in and mix some of my ikhar into one of the potions he was using. I think he knew this, and believed my tattoo carried healing power. He traveled to Mexico City one day and got himself one just like mine.”

  Laura nodded. And in so doing, signed his own death warrant.

  She imagined the sequence of events: Ix’chel’s cures enhance Mulac’s reputation, which attracts the hopelessly sick, Chaim Brody among them, which eventually alerts the 536 fanatics and—

  Wait-wait-wait! That was all predicated on Ix’chel’s ikhar working as a panacea, and there was no such thing as a panacea.

  Remember that. Remember that.

  And then Brody … wait …

  “How did Chaim become a healer? Where did he get his tattoo?”

  “The All-Mother called him and he answered.”

  “But how—?”

  “She called. He answered. That is all you can know.”

  Her expression said that she felt she’d told too much already and this was as far as she was going to go.

  “He returned with the tattoo?”

  “Of course.”

  “Can I … can I see yours again?”

  This time she whipped off her shirt entirely, exposing her small, dark-nippled breasts, and turned her back.

  Laura studied it, comparing it to what she remembered of Chaim’s. She’d brought a photo of his tattoo along, but it was back in the Jeep.

  “The line in Chaim’s is angled the other way. Is that significant?”

  “It points to the Wound.”

  “Wound? What wound?”

  “The Wound—the injury the All-Mother suffered to bring us the cure.”

  “And the shooting star—the comet or meteor or whatever—what does that mean?”

/>   “The comet represents the birth of the cure.”

  “When was that?”

  “I do not know. But it was long, long ago.”

  Laura knew that in ancient times comets were seen as signs of portent—either for good or bad, depending on the culture. Maybe a comet had appeared around the time someone first boiled these plants and believed it a cure-all.

  “What about the snake? Are snakes a part of the cure?”

  “No. Only the plants.”

  “Then why is one front and center on the tattoo?”

  “I do not know. I was never told.”

  Laura shook her head, baffled. “I’m having an awfully hard time following this.”

  “You say you want to understand.” Ix’chel wasn’t asking a question.

  “Yes, of course I do.”

  She shook her head. “But you see, not everything can be understood. Some things are not made to be understood. This is what I was told and this is what I believe.”

  Spoken like a true fundamentalist. But for Laura, everything could be understood—eventually—given sufficient facts. Sometimes, though, the facts were elusive.

  “But how—I don’t mean to grill you, but how can it point to this Wound if you’re always moving around?”

  She smiled. “Ah. I see. No, it points to the Wound when I say the prayer.” As if anticipating Laura’s next question, she hurried on. “Every fall, on the night when the dark begins to overcome the light, I must journey to the place of my birth—which is here—and lie facedown with my head toward the North Star, and thank the All-Mother for suffering the Wound.”

  … on the night when the dark begins to overcome the light … that had to be the autumnal equinox.

  “What is the prayer?”

  Ix’chel spread her shirt on the ground and lay prone upon it.

  “I lie just like this and say it.” She began to chant in the Yucatec dialect.

  “‘Twixt the house of the fallen godmen

  And the tomb of the fallen star

  That slew summer,

  Auburon lies drowning.

  He sleeps,

  Martyred and imprisoned

  Yet mocking his oppressors.

  He sleeps in the Wound,

  Midmoon from the godmen gate

  Where five men stand above his door.

  His guardian leg shall bear you to new life.’”

  The chant neither scanned nor rhymed, which suggested that it had not been composed in Mayan. As Ix’chel lay there, Laura noticed that the transecting line ran east-northeast and west-southwest.

  It points to the Wound …

  “What does the prayer mean?”

  Ix’chel rose and slipped back into her T-shirt.

  “I do not know.”

  “It mentions something about a ‘tomb of the fallen star.’ That looks like a falling star behind the staff and the snake. Do you know—?”

  “All I know is that I must say it on that night.”

  An idea was taking shape …

  “Do all of you … what do you call yourselves?”

  “Sylyk.”

  “Is that the name of your”—she didn’t want to say cult—“your religion?”

  “We are simply the Children … all people are Children of the All-Mother. But Children such as myself are known as sylyk … an ancient word that means healer.”

  “Okay. And do all of you sylyk go to your birthplace and face the North Star at the equinox every year?”

  “Yes. It is our law.”

  “Then Chaim would have gone to his home during the equinox and—”

  Ix’chel blinked back sudden tears. “Chaim did not have time…”

  Laura was picturing Chaim lying on his belly in Brooklyn. If you extended Ix’chel’s tattoo line and his, where would they cross? The Wound?

  … the injury the All-Mother suffered to bring us the cure …

  Perhaps the source of the supposed cure?

  If she could find the source, maybe she could get a sample for Stahlman. Not that it was going to help him, but at least she would have completed her part of the bargain.

  She pointed to the earth below their feet. “Could I bring my friend here, to this spot, to try an experiment?”

  Ix’chel looked skeptical. “The big man? No.”

  “He can be trusted.”

  She shook her head. “I speak only to you.”

  Damn.

  “Okay. Then let me run back for a picture of Chaim’s back. I want to show you something.”

  “Do not take long.”

  Laura started toward the Jeep at a run. “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.”

  5

  When she reached the Jeep, Rick was nowhere in sight. Their luggage lay unguarded and exposed through the shattered rear window.

  “Rick? Rick!”

  “Coming.”

  She turned and spotted him emerging from the trees near the Jeep’s hood. His green T-shirt was spotted with darker patches of sweat. The veins on his glistening arms were bulging. His safari jacket had hidden how muscular he was.

  “Where’ve you been?”

  “Working out a little. Calisthenics, mostly. Found a good horizontal branch for—”

  “Great, great. Do you have a compass?”

  “Can’t imagine traveling into the outback without one. Why?”

  “I need to measure a line from a point here at a certain angle from north.”

  “You mean an azimuth?”

  “Yes, if that’s what it’s called.”

  “What for?”

  She gave Rick a quick rundown of the mythology of the panaceans—the Wound, the prayer, the tattoo, the equinox ritual.

  “So she’s talking,” he said. “Great. You learned a lot in a little while.”

  “Well, I’ve heard a lot, but I don’t feel I know much more than when we left JFK. It’s all folk tales and rituals and All-Mother mumbo-jumbo.”

  They opened the rear of the Jeep. Rick pawed through his duffel while she searched through her bag for Chaim’s belt. She found it under the photo of his tattoo. She hoped Ix’chel could decipher its symbols.

  Rick held up the compass. “Which way do we go?”

  Laura shook her head. “Not ‘we.’ Just me. Whatever trust I’ve established is fragile. She’ll clam up if you’re there.”

  His expression as he handed her the compass said he didn’t like it. “You know what to do?”

  Laura realized she had only a vague idea. “I’m going to get the angle—the azimuth—of the line of her tattoo from north.”

  “This have something to do with why we’re here?”

  “I hope so.”

  “We talking polar north or magnetic?”

  “There’s a difference?”

  “Sure is. Magnetic moves around—varies from a hundred to a thousand miles or more.” He tapped the compass in her hand. “This will point you toward magnetic north.”

  “Ix’chel mentioned the North Star.”

  “That’s different. That’s Polaris and that’s polar north because Polaris is located straight up from Earth’s axis.”

  She looked at the sunny sky. Polaris was somewhere up there right now, just not visible. She remembered hunting for the North Star as a kid: simply find the Big Dipper and follow a line up from the leading edge of its cup. The first bright star you saw was Polaris.

  “I can’t see stars in the day. What do I do?”

  “Don’t see much choice but to wait for sundown and hope it’s clear.”

  Damn. She did not want to spend another night here—not with a broken rear window.

  He added, “Unless our friendly neighborhood panacean has a solution.”

  Laura hurried off and was relieved to find Ix’chel waiting where she’d left her.

  Resigning herself to another night here, she said, “Can we come back after dark so you can see the North Star and show us which way you lie?”

  “I know the way,” she said
, pointing. “The star is always between those two trees.”

  Laura remembered Polaris being higher in the sky, but maybe things were different here.

  “Can you lie down now as you did before?”

  Ix’chel stepped back. “Why do you want this?”

  Good question. Laura gave her an honest answer. She showed her the photo of Chaim’s tattoo. “I’m curious as to why the lines are different. The Wound is not a secret place, is it?”

  “No…”

  “I seek to harm no one. I want only to understand.”

  Ix’chel hesitated, then stretched herself out on the ground as before. But this time she kept her shirt on and simply lifted its back enough to reveal the tattoo.

  If Ix’chel was right, her true north was a tad off the compass’s magnetic north, which Rick said was usually the case. Making the adjustment, Laura calculated that the diagonal on her tattoo ran on an azimuth seventy-two degrees north-northeast and two fifty-two degrees south-southwest.

  Laura pictured a map in her head. South-southwest took her through Campeche, Guatemala, and back into Mexico. North-northeast took her to … she could picture only the Caribbean course of the line. Beyond that was uncertain. Cuba and then … Europe.

  Great. That narrowed it down.

  As Ix’chel rose, she spotted the belt in Laura’s hand. Her eyes widened when she saw the markings on the inner surface.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “Chaim was wearing it when he died. I—”

  She was unbuckling and pulling off her own belt. “I have one too. All sylyk have one.” She held hers and Chaim’s up side by side. “See.”

  Laura did see: two identical sequences, exactly the same size, spaced exactly the same.

  “What does it mean?”

  She shrugged. “I do not know, but we are to wear it always.”

  There’s too damn much you don’t know! Laura wanted to scream, but bit her tongue.

  She took back Chaim’s belt and said, “When will you make more ikhar?”

  “It will be a while. The seeds must arrive and they must grow before I have plants to boil.”

  “No idea when the next seeds…?”

  She shook her head. “The All-Mother tells the urschell and the urschell obeys.”

  Rolling up Chaim’s belt, Laura felt herself getting ticked off at the All-Mother. “What if—?”