David Wood
Xibalba
PROLOGUE
It was unthinkable that the lush, fertile landscape could be so deadly, but Diego Alvarez de Castile knew that hell lay concealed beneath the green illusion of paradise.
It was their fifteenth day since the battle near the city the Spaniards had called el Gran Cairo—so-named for the towering pyramid-like structures which loomed above the stone houses — thirty-nine days since the expedition set out from Cuba to explore new lands and capture slaves to work the mines and fields of the new Spanish territory. The first meeting with the Indians had gone well. A small party of natives had rowed out to meet them and there had been an exchange of food and other gifts, but the next day, when the Spaniards had made landfall, the Indians had shown their true colors, attacking the landing party with arrows and stones.
Although the members of the expedition were not experienced fighters they had anticipated treachery and were armed with muskets and crossbows, and wore steel armor which offered greater protection than the cloth armor worn by the natives. They had held off the attackers long enough to regain the safety of their ships, taking three Indian captives, though at a cost of two Spaniards dead and several more wounded. Still, it had seemed like a victory, particularly when one of the captives began telling — or more precisely, pantomiming — tales of the magnificent riches in the interior. While the main expedition had continued along the coast of what they believed to be an island larger even than Cuba, Alvarez had taken a party of twenty-five able-bodied men to scout the interior and see for themselves if the stories were true.
Thus had begun the journey into hell.
A third of their group — nine men — had perished, lost to the perils of the jungle: wild beasts, venomous snakes and insects, fevers resulting from seemingly insignificant wounds. All who remained were suffering from lesser afflictions that would, if something did not change, eventually destroy them as well. The one danger they had anticipated and prepared for — attacks by hostile Indians — had not materialized, but then neither had they encountered any of the fabled riches. The significance of this was not lost on Alvarez.
He confronted their guide, the Indian hostage they had taken to calling Balthasar. “You tricked us,” he raged, knowing that his wrath would be more comprehensible to the native than his actual words. He made a cutting gesture with his hand. “You led us into this wilderness to die. There is no gold. It was all a lie.”
Balthasar quivered in fright, understanding only that the man intended him harm, and waved his arms to placate his captor. He pointed straight ahead, shaking his hand emphatically.
Just a little ways further.
He started in that direction, pulling Alvarez along with him.
“No.” Alvarez shook himself free of the other man’s grasp. “No more of your lies.”
He raised his eyes, looking for the sun through the thick jungle foliage. The expedition had sailed west. If Alvarez turned north now, the small scouting party would reach the coast in a few days, and perhaps find their countrymen waiting. “We go this way.”
Balthasar’s face twisted into a mask of apprehension, and when the party started in this new direction, he resisted, moving only when Alvarez threatened to drag him along at the end of a rope.
They hacked through the thick vegetation, advancing only about fifty pasos—the length of a determined man’s stride — before the deepening gloom signaled the approach of dusk. Alvarez set half his men to the task of establishing a camp, while the remainder continued blazing a trail in the waning light.
They barely coaxed a cooking fire to life when one of the advance scouts hastened into the camp. “Señor, come quickly.”
Alvarez could tell by the man’s eagerness that whatever they had discovered portended well, so he took Balthasar’s rope and pulled him along up the trail. They did not have far to go. Just fifty pasas from the edge of camp, the thick jungle seemed to both open up and fall away, sloping down into a lushly forested valley. A wide pool dominated the middle of the valley, sparkling in the setting sun, and close to it, a crumbling partly overgrown monolith that looked like it might have been the ruins of a mezquita—one of the pyramid temples where the Indians worshiped their heathen gods.
“Cenote,” Balthasar whispered.
Alvarez knew the word. They had encountered other cenotes along the way; sinkholes that had filled up with water, like natural wells. The Indian seemed to revere them, casting small offerings into each one they passed, but something about this cenote inspired only terror in their hostage-guide. He began gesticulating wildly and whispering in his native tongue. “Kukul’kan.”
“What are you trying to tell me?” Alvarez hissed, waving his hands. “What is it that frightens you?”
With an effort, Balthasar got himself under control, then he began making an undulating motion with his hand.
“Snake?” Alvarez copied the pantomime, cupping his hand like a striking viper.
It must have been the correct interpretation, for Balthasar next pointed to each of the Spaniards in turn, and then wiggled his fingers as if to simulate walking.
Walking snake, Alvarez thought. Snake man, perhaps?
Balthasar now pointed to the cenote, or perhaps to the ruined pyramid, and then to the ground behind him… No, Alvarez realized, he’s pointing to his own shadow.
“Valle de sombra,” whispered another of his men, who then proceeded to cross himself.
“Snake demons and a valley of shadow,” Alvarez said. “He is trying to frighten us from the correct path with imaginary dangers, while leading us to ruin. Look for yourself. There are no fields. No cooking fires. No one has lived there in a hundred years. Perhaps there we will find the treasures we seek. Tomorrow, we will cross this place of shadow, and you will see.”
Balthasar continued to chatter urgently, and the return to camp only made him more restive. He kept repeating the same phrases over and over again. “Bo’oy. Kukul’kan.” He pulled at the thick rope knotted around his neck, as if trying to drag Alvarez back down the jungle trail, quieting only when Alvarez threatened to beat him with a stick.
During the night, Balthasar used his teeth to tear open the veins in his wrists, spilling his lifeblood on the jungle floor.
The suicide cast a pall over the camp. Alvarez acted quickly to stifle the rising chorus of discontent and fear. “A trapped animal will tear its own flesh to escape a snare. This is no different.”
“It is different,” challenged Diaz, Alvarez’s second-in-command. “He took his life rather than face the Valley of Shadow. And you would have us blindly go in.”
“He took his life because his heathen gods demanded it,” Alvarez countered. “We who serve the true God have nothing to fear. Do you not remember the words of the Psalm? ‘Aunque ande en valle de sombra de muerte, no temeré mal alguno.’”
“Are we to call you Fray Diego, now?” Diaz shot back. “You will lead us to ruin.”
Yet Diaz’s tone had lost some of its defiance. In quoting scripture, Alvarez had challenged his men to demonstrate that their faith was stronger than their superstitious fear. There would be no mutiny. But that did not mean the men were happy about it.
They struck camp quickly, leaving Balthasar’s body where it lay, and started down into the valley. Their progress was slow at first, but it was not long before they encountered what appeared to be a road, paved with white stones, snaking through the forest. Although the jungle was encroaching on the path, enough of it remained clear to speed them along. By noon, they had reached the valley floor. The trees obscured the ruin, but the road seemed to lead in that direction, so Alvarez kept following it. Not long after, they reached the edge of the city.