Cycles. Revolutions. Balam-Acab’s father had told him that his name had a special history in the village. Centuries before, when the conquerers had first arrived, Balam-Acab’s namesake had led a band of warriors that attempted to repulse the Spanish from the Yucatan. The struggle had persisted for several years until Balam-Acab’s namesake was captured and hacked into pieces, then burned. But the glory of the rebel persisted beyond his death, indeed until the present generation, and Balam-Acab was proud to bear the name.
But burdened, as well. It wasn’t a coincidence that he’d been given this name instead of another. History moved in circles, just as periodically the Maya had again revolted against their oppressors. Stripped of their culture, yoked into slavery, the Maya had rebelled during the 1600s, again in the 1800s, and most recently in the early part of this century. Each time, they had been fiercely defeated. Many were forced to retreat to the remotest parts of the jungle in order to avoid retribution and the terrible sicknesses brought by the outsiders.
And now the outsiders had come again. Balam-Acab knew that if they weren’t stopped, his village would be destroyed. Circles, cycles, revolutions. He was here to make a sacrifice to the gods, to ask for their wisdom, to pray for their counsel. He needed to be guided. His namesake had no doubt conducted this same ritual during the 1500s. Uncontaminated, it would be repeated.
He raised his obsidian knife. Its black volcanic glass-“the fingernail of the lightning bolt”-was sharpened to a stilettolike point. He raised it to the underside of his outstretched tongue, struggling to ignore the pain as he thrust upward, piercing. The only way he could manage the task was by clamping his teeth against his tongue to hold it in place so that the exposed slippery flesh could not resist the blade. Blood gushed from his tongue, drenching his hand. He trembled from shock.
Nonetheless, he continued thrusting upward. Only when the obsidian point came completely through his tongue and scraped along his upper teeth did he remove it. Tears welled from his eyes. He stifled the urge to moan. Continuing to clamp his tongue with his teeth, he lowered the knife and raised the cord stitched with thorns. As his ancestors had done, he shoved the cord through the hole in his tongue and began to pull upward. Sweat burst from his face, no longer from humidity and exertion but from agony. The first thorn in the cord reached the hole in his tongue. Although it snagged, he pulled it through. Blood ran down the cord. He persisted in pulling, forcing another thorn through his tongue. And another. Blood cascaded down the cord and soaked the strips of paper where the bottom of the cord rested in the precious bowl.
Inside the temple behind him, there were images of Balam-Acab’s ancestors performing this ritual. In some cases, the king had impaled his penis, then thrust the cord of thorns through that organ instead of his tongue. But whatever part of the body was used, the objective was the same-through pain and blood, to achieve a vision state, to communicate with the Otherworld, to understand what the gods advised and indeed demanded.
Weakened, Balam-Acab sank to his knees, as if he worshiped the blood-soaked strips of paper in the bowl. As soon as the cord of thorns had been pulled completely through his tongue, he would place it in the bowl with the strips of paper. He would add more paper and a ball of copal incense. Then he would use matches-the only adulteration of the rite that he permitted-and set fire to his offering, adding more paper as necessary, the flames boiling and eventually burning his blood.
His mind swirled. He wavered, struggling to maintain a delirious balance between consciousness and collapse, for his ancestors would not have performed this rite without assistance, whereas he would have to rouse himself and proceed alone through the jungle back to the village.
He thought that the gods began to speak to him. He heard them, at the edge of hearing. He felt them, felt their presence, felt-
The tremor spread through him. But it wasn’t a tremor caused by shock or pain. The tremor came from outside him, through the stones upon which he knelt, through the pyramid upon which he conducted his ritual, through the earth beneath which lay the god of darkness, to whom he appealed.
The tremor was caused by the shock wave from dynamite as a crew continued their devastation despite the night. The rumble sounded like a moan from a restive god.
He raised a book of matches, struck one, and dropped it onto the strips of paper that lay above his blood in the sacred bowl.
Circles.
Again time had turned.
This holy place was being defiled.
The conquerers had to be conquered.
FOUR
1
When Buchanan wakened, he was soaked with sweat, his lips so parched that he knew he had a fever. He swallowed several aspirins from the first aid kit, almost gagging, forcing them down his dry throat. By then, it was after dawn. He and Wade were in Merida, 322 kilometers west of Cancun, near the Gulf of Mexico side of the Yucatan Peninsula. Unlike Cancun, Merida evoked an old-world feeling, its great mansions dating from the turn of the century. Indeed, the city had once been called the Paris of the Western World, for in former, richer times, millionaire merchants had deliberately tried to make Merida like Paris, where they often went on vacation. The city still retained much of its European charm, but Buchanan was too delirious to care about the tree-lined avenues and the horse-drawn carriages. “What time is it?” he asked, too listless to peer at his watch.
“Eight o’clock.” Wade parked near a not-yet-open market. “Will you be okay if I leave you alone for a while?”
“Where are you going?”
Wade answered, but Buchanan didn’t hear what he said, his mind drifting, sinking.
When he wakened again, Wade was unlocking the Ford, getting in. “I’m sorry I took so long.”
So long? Buchanan thought. “What do you mean?” His vision was bleary. His tongue felt swollen. “What time is it now?”
“Almost nine. Most stores still aren’t open. But I managed to get you some bottled water.” Wade untwisted a cap from a bottle of Evian and tilted it toward Buchanan’s parched lips.
Buchanan’s mouth seemed like a dry sponge, absorbing most of the water. Some trickled down his chin. Frustrated, he tried again and this time managed to swallow. “Give me more of those aspirins.” His throat sounded as if it were wedged with stones.
“Still feverish?”
Buchanan nodded, grimacing. “And this bitch of a headache won’t stop.”
“Hold out your hand. I’ll give you the aspirins.”
Buchanan’s left hand felt weak, and his right hand suddenly became spastic again. “Better put them in my mouth.”
Wade frowned.
Buchanan swallowed the aspirins with more water.
“You have to keep your strength up. You can’t survive on just water,” Wade said. “I brought doughnuts, milk, and coffee.”
“I don’t think my stomach would tolerate the doughnuts.”