I was too nervous about being seen to sit on the veranda, so I had my coffee and some biscuits in the bar area, then went out back to get the lay of the land.
The village was really tiny, but quite attractive. While the little houses were really only huts, they seemed well kept, and the colors were wonderful. The general store was painted an astonishingly bright purple with hot-pink trim. The cafe itself was a brilliant aqua, also with pink trim.
The rest of the houses were whitewashed, like my little hut out back of the cafe. Bougainvilleas climbed everywhere, and almost all the houses had window boxes filled with scarlet blooms.
Out back there was a communal well where the women of the village seemed to congregate. The object of their attention this morning was undoubtedly me.
There was also a play area. The older village boys were playing volleyball in a desultory way until I came along, and then with an audience, the game became rather more competitive.
One of the boys, Carlos by name, he told me, came over. Obviously the leader of the group, he was the logical one to inquire what the gringa was doing here.
I told him I was just a tourist, but that I really wanted to see the countryside. He looked suitably dubious.
I asked him about the name of the town—La Huaca de Chac.
“That’s a mixture of Spanish and Maya,” he said shyly. “Huaca in Spanish is a sacred place and Chac— well, Chac is the Maya rain god, a very powerful god.
“No one knew why our town was called that until very recently. Not very far from here, archaeologists have found a cave with huge carvings of Chacs. My father works there, and he’s told me about it.
“My father says that our people, the Maya, were a great civilization at one time, with huge cities and everything. He says the more we learn about them, the more proud of being Maya we can be.”
I told him I agreed with him, and I thought back to my earlier conversation with Esperanza about how Maya youth are turning their backs on their heritage.
But Carlos was right. The more we learned about Maya civilization, the more impressive it became. All the more reason to find Smoking Frog’s codex. But I wanted to hear more about the cave.
“What you are telling me about the cave, the sacred place, is amazing,” I said. “Is it possible for tourists to see this cave? Is it open to the public?”
“No, it isn’t. And maybe it never will be,” he said, lowering his voice. “My dad says the gods are angry that we are working there.”
“What makes him say that?” I asked.
“Things,” he replied. “Just things.” And with that, he turned back to his volleyball game.
Just about then the general store opened for business. I went in and was greeted by a woman by the name of Maria, who, like Guadelupe, was minding the family business while her husband worked elsewhere to add to the family’s meager earnings.
I spent a long time in the store. First I attended to personal necessities. The store had a small section in the back that sold toiletries, so I was able to get a toothbrush and toothpaste and shampoo.
Next I stocked up for the expedition I was planning to take. I found a couple of tarpaulins, an army camouflage color, some rope, and flashlight batteries. I also found a little compass, but it looked as if it had come from a cereal box, so I was hesitant to rely on it.
In a dusty old corner filled with various secondhand and broken things, I found an old pair of army binoculars in a brown leather case. One lens was scratched, and the covers for both lenses were missing. The strap for the case was long gone, too. But all things considered, it was perfect, particularly the price, which was about five dollars. I then found a backpack, also used, but still serviceable, to put everything in. I felt pleased with my purchases.
Next I went back to the cafe and asked Guadelupe if I could stay another night, and if she could make me up a sandwich, a torta, to go. She agreed.
Soon I was hiking into the forest in the general direction of the cave. I was not entirely sure how to reach it, and I certainly did not wish to blunder in, so I moved cautiously through the forest.
I smelled smoke before I actually heard the voices, and was able to take cover, then move forward very cautiously toward a small clearing in the forest.
Four men were sitting in a semicircle under an overhang of rock. One of the men, an older man, was tending to something, which, when I trained my binoculars on it, appeared to be an altar of some kind with some candles and a pottery brazier in which something, probably copal incense, was burning. The older man chanted quietly while the others spoke to each other.
Because of their position, I could see only three of the men, the old man who appeared to be functioning as a priest or shaman, a young man, and another older man. The fourth man had his back to me, and had a black windbreaker pulled up high, so that I could not see him.
They spoke in low voices, presumably so that they would not interrupt the ceremony, whatever it might be. The young man appeared agitated, and his voice carried better than the others.
“I don’t care what you say,” the young man said. “There is something really funny going on in that place. It gives me the creeps.”
If he was talking about the cave, that opinion was beginning to sound universal.
The older man made a dismissive gesture, and made some sort of joke at the expense of the younger man that I could not hear, but that made the other two laugh.
“It was blood,” the young man said. “Not water, not mud, not someone’s lunch. Blood!”
One of the men said something I couldn’t hear again.
“It was before Gustavo cut his hand, not after, so don’t give me that one!
“And anyway, how do you explain the moving crates?”
“The artifacts are still there. That’s all that counts.”
“Crates don’t move by themselves,” the young man said.
“And who do you think is moving them?” the older man asked. “The Lords of Darkness?”
All of them laughed at that.
“Maybe it’s the Children of the Talking Cross,” the older man went on. “Hiding out in the cave during the night when we’re not there, stealing artifacts to add to their growing collection.”
The group really found that hilarious. The older man was rocking with laughter.
“The Children of the Talking Cross are a figment of someone’s imagination,” the third man said. “Just like all this stuff about vanishing crates and pools of mystery blood are figments of yours,” he said, gesturing in the direction of the young man.
The young man looked sullen. “Maybe then the real guerrillas should do something.”
“Maybe they are,” the older man said.
Suddenly the fourth man, who up until this moment had said nothing, leaned forward and began to speak very softly. All three leaned forward to hear him. I could not.
After a few minutes the three nodded, and then got up and shook hands.
“I’ll take the watch tonight,” the third man said. “You are on duty tomorrow,” he said, gesturing toward the mystery man, who nodded.
I pulled back into the forest as the four left, walking away from my position. I kept my binoculars trained on the fourth man, who, obligingly, paused at the edge of the clearing and looked back.
Lucas May again! He appeared to be looking directly at me and I held my breath. But of course I was using binoculars and he was not. I wondered if he had caught a flash from the lens or something. But after a few seconds he turned back and followed the others.
I sat back on my tarpaulin, my back against a tree, and thought about all this.
Who were these people? Guerrillas? Zapatistas? And were they, too, on the trail of Smoking Frog’s codex? Certainly such a find would be a powerful tool to increase nationalistic feelings among the indigenous peoples, and as such would be a potent weapon for the guerrilla groups.