by J A Kellman
The Nuevo closed in from every direction. Using the mano like a club, I struck out at the grabbing hands and arms, the jostling bodies, trying to connect with something important. The noise was deafening—I howled like a witch; the Nuevo shouted or cursed in pain; the curator screamed; it sounded as if someone was breaking up the furniture as they struggled to escape, or seize my arms in the dark.
“Grab her.”
“Get another lantern.”
“What the hell…
The sound of the door splintering was nearly blotted out by the din.
“Hold it. Don’t move. Don’t touch your weapons or you’re all dead.”
A group of park rangers pushed their way into the room, flicking the flashlights on their sidearms around the surging space. More park rangers shoved in the small back door, which lead to the shed out back. All that could be heard in the sudden quiet was the snuffling and mumbling of the man on the floor.
Even in the feeble flickering light I could see the damage I’d done with the mano. His face was a bloody ruin.
~ * ~
The rest of the night was a blur. Luis and I ended up in a ranger’s Land Cruiser, parked near the edge of the Nuevo’s compound, while the rangers sorted out the situation inside. As the adrenaline and the rage that lifted me from my chair began to fade, nausea moved in to take their place. I was shaking and disoriented. Luis motioned me closer to him on the seat, pulled me to him, took my hand.
“You have been waiting for the ancestors,” he said gently. “Now you have met them, mi hermana.” He held my hand, stroking it as if it were an injured bird. “Pobrecita.”
I slumped against his shoulder, eyes closed. I could feel my terror drain away as he held me close with his good arm. I slept, safe with Luis... and his ancestors standing guard.
~ * ~
The sun was just coming up when the assault on the ranch was over. The sudden silence and Luis stirring, woke me in time to see the rangers carrying several stretchers to the waiting ambulances and two dozen handcuffed Nuevo led to police vans. I spotted the curator’s bright gold hair as she was shoved into the back of a Land Cruiser. I didn’t catch sight of K’in Kan.
Two rangers, both of whom I recognized from the park, approached the SUV.
“Buenos días, señora y señor,” the driver said as he slipped under the wheel. “Yo soy Francisco. Este es Esteban. We’re taking you back to the inn.” The driver turned onto the muddy road heading in the direction from which we’d come.
The roads had not improved overnight. If anything, they were worse. The surface had been churned into endless mire by the rangers’ vehicles. The traffic, especially for a jungle road, was heavy. Periodically, clots of Guatemalan military trucks and smaller groups of rangers forced us to swerve into the undergrowth that lined the track, so they could pass.
“If you’re wondering why we are heading this way, we’re avoiding the Central Plaza,” Francisco said as he pulled the SUV onto the road after avoiding a group of military jeeps heading the direction from which we’d come.
“It’s too open for one thing, and there were skirmishes near the main plaza last night,” he said as he addressed the uneven trail, tacking south then west as he angled toward the hotel.
Luis gripped my hand to steady himself as he peered through the windshield. “Any idea where those groups are now?” he asked, shouting to be heard over the roar of the Land Cruiser’s first gear as the SUV gnawed its way along the path.
“The Sinaloas and Los Zetas were the ones that tangled in the middle of the plaza last night, but who knows where they are this morning,” Francisco yelled over the grinding engine. “The Nuevo, you know.”
Luis snorted.
Just as Ochoa feared, fighting in the plaza, I thought, as I tightened my grip on Luis and the back of the seat in front of me. All I could hope was that nothing major had been damaged by gunfire.
Now that it was light, the sound of the guns became sporadic, just occasional bursts from the plaza and southwest toward Flores, and intermittent single shots to the north. It was impossible to know who was firing at whom.
A sudden volley crackled close to our right, fracturing the morning air, followed by a short burst of return fire. The driver swore as he swerved into the understory near the road to avoid driving into the middle of a firefight. The SUV lurched as it dropped off the path into the gully that lined the roadway. The sound of tearing, thrashing metal brought us to a full stop in the undergrowth, even though the engine was still running.
“¿Qué es?” the driver said as he stepped on the gas, but nothing happened. The engine whined but that was it. “Jesús! Esteban, get out and take a look.”
His partner dropped to his knees just outside the Land Cruiser’s door, peered underneath, shook his head, stood, stuck his head back in. “Might as well shut it down. Axle’s broken.”
~ * ~
Oh, great, I thought a half hour later as we slogged toward the rear of the acropolis, another day of fear and misery.
Since the gunfire seemed to be moving closer to our path, Francisco and Esteban looked for shelter where we wouldn’t be seen. Carrying a backpack, Esteban led our little party, scouting the understory for signs of trouble; Francisco pushed Luis in his chair behind him, and I brought up the rear, hoping to hell I wasn’t as exposed as I felt.
It took another hour of shoving through grass, mud, and gravel, skirting reservoirs, and circling ancient Mayan temples before we reached the edge of the palace reservoir and a pathway to the Central Acropolis. On the far side, stretching east to west, the acropolis loomed, its gray bulk spread like bat wings over its platform.
We paused to take in the massive silent form and catch our breath. Esteban wiped his forehead on his sleeve, but Francisco was eager to move.
“We can’t stand here,” Francisco said, “sounds like the firing is coming closer. We gotta pick up the pace.”
We rounded the end of the acropolis at a trot, stopping at the bottom of its massive stairway. Careful not to jostle Luis more than necessary, the men grabbed his chair and started up the worn steps; I followed close behind to steady Luis.
It was rough going at the top as well—the acropolis was a broken field of ancient crumbling buildings, treacherous stairways, empty courtyards, patches of grass, piles of rubble. Francisco struggled to avoid the worst spots, but he had to fight to keep the chair from overturning as we headed across the open ground. Luis’s knuckles were white as he gripped his bucking, kicking chair.
“We’re heading for Mahler’s Palace,” Francisco said, guiding skills coming to the fore, even as he wrenched the chair away from a hole. “It’s named after the early explorer that lived there when he was working in Tikal back in the nineteenth century.” He grunted with the effort as he plowed across a patch of grass.
Luis, afraid to open his mouth, raised a hand to show he understood.
The palace was a long, low rangy building. Three squat doorways divided the facade into equal sections. We headed for the one in the middle, the one where Mahler had carved his name in the lintel, according to Francisco.
“No hope of getting back to the hotel in broad daylight,” Esteban said once we were inside. “We’ll have to sit tight. I’ve got water in the backpack, some chocolate, cereal bars. We might as well make ourselves at home,” he added as he handed out the still cool bottles. “I’ll try the radio again, but the reception here is poor.”
It was a long day, trying to keep warm in the clammy dark space, listening to the fighting as it flared and faded across the landscape, watching the curtains of a sudden afternoon rain, waiting for the light to fade.
As the shadows lengthened outside our hiding place, the storm became low rumbles and the sound of trees in the wind. Francisco, who’d been quietly talking on and off with Esteban while Luis and I drowsed, began to stir. He pushed himself off the floor with a low groan.
“I’m stiff as hell,” he said as he stretched, then checked his duty belt. “
I’m going to head out, see if I can learn anything.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “I’ve got my radio, but reception is spotty. Maybe if I’m away from the Acropolis it will improve. Don’t move till I say so or it looks like I’m not coming back. Esteban will keep an eye on things here.”
Esteban grunted, nodded, checking his gear as he moved toward the door to take up a place just inside the opening where he could watch the courtyard beyond.
The last we saw of Francisco, he was running low, crouched in the shadows of the courtyard wall near the acropolis stairs; then he disappeared.
~ * ~
By the time the sun began to slip toward the horizon and the wind picked up again, Francisco still hadn’t returned. I was getting edgy—Luis looked like hell, and I felt almost as bad. Every bone in my body ached, and Luis was in no state to be playing commando day after day and then sitting in a cold cell fasting like a monk while a battle raged outside. We’d covered him with his blanket, and the men had put their jackets over him, too, but he looked droopy.
“How are you doing?” I asked when his eyes flickered open.
“Been better, been worse. The food and blankets have helped,” he said, shifting in his chair.
I nodded. When his eyes closed again, I slipped over to Esteban, who had been squatting inside the door since Francisco left.
“Luis can’t go on like this much longer,” I whispered as I crouched next to him. Nor can I, I thought. If we’d known we’d be taking part in survival training, we’d never left Big Grove.
Esteban nodded. “We’ll wait till it’s dark. If we haven’t heard anything by then, we’re out of here, even if Francisco isn’t back. Who knows what’s happened?”
The plan made sense to me. We couldn’t sit here forever.
I could smell wet jungle as I squatted next to Esteban, but there was a trace of something else in the moist air, too. Something smoky, smoldering, spicy. Copal? Burning wood? “Do you smell that?”
“Fires for sure, copal maybe,” Esteban said, as what sounded like the growing noise of a celebration gusted in the door with the smoke.
“Drums, trumpets, rattles, cheering,” I said. “What on earth?”
Esteban shook his head. “I’ll scout it out.” He slid out the door, heading toward what seemed to be a fiesta developing in the Great Plaza.
The faint noise grew louder as it approached the base of the acropolis, swelling in volume and complexity—cheering crowds, wild music, fierce shouts, the racket of excitement and anticipation. Nearly blotted out by the yelling and drums, I could hear a faint chant that grew increasingly insistent as it drew nearer. Thank God there was no gunfire now, just drums and shouting, and the surging roar of a crowd pouring into the Great Plaza from the north.
I didn’t hear Esteban return, but he was agitated when he slipped back into our hiding spot. “Jesús y María. You won’t believe it! It’s the Nuevo; they’re holding some sort of ritual, a ceremony and parade, and it looks like there are sacrificial victims being taken to Temple One. One guy is yelling in English. Something about being an American, a restaurant owner; all he knows is tacos.”
“God! Tacos!”
The noise grew louder, the shouts and catcalls more excited, the screams of the victims more hysterical.
“I’ve gotta see what’s happening,” he said. “Coming?”
“Let me check on Luis, tell him what’s going on. I’ll be right behind you.” After I straightened Luis’s blankets, I took off behind Esteban. Whatever was occurring was important, a piece of the puzzle of the Nuevo, cartels, and nativist fervor, and I wanted to witness it.
By the time I settled into a hiding spot behind a crumbling wall at the front of the acropolis next to Esteban, the crowd had reached the bottom of the nearly vertical stairs of Temple 1. They parted, allowing a group of a dozen Mayan warriors in classic regalia to reach the stairs with the captives. It could have been 250 CE. Their traditional regalia was stunning: quetzal-feather and white cotton turban crowns, backracks and bustles trailing long green, blue, and red feathers of jungle birds, high jaguar hide sandals, white loincloths with wide bright waist wraps, jade earspools, necklaces, and armbands, and huge carved pectorals. The group’s leader wore a mask of an unfamiliar god—red-faced, curly nosed, with a shrunken head attached to the forehead. He was too far away to see if it was Kan or to tell if the head was real.
The music and shouting grew as the ritual party mounted the steep steps, hauling the three barefoot captives in loincloths with them. At the top of the stairs, in front of the temple entrance, fires burned at either end of the platform. A small circular, flat-topped, limestone altar had been placed in the center between braziers of smoldering copal. A gray granite bowl sat to one side of the altar near the stairs.
The captives, herded into the small space inside the temple, were out of sight.
“I wonder if they know what comes next?” I asked Esteban. I was starting to feel queasy just thinking about it.
Esteban shook his head, never taking his eyes off the temple.
~ * ~
The chanting and music continued as the red and gold banners and streaks of lemon of the setting sun faded to luminous turquoise as the planet Venus, the Mayan god of war and marker of sacrifice, soared into the heavens over the temple’s ruined roof comb, silhouetted by the fading light. As the planet reached its highest position, one of the captives was dragged from the temple, head hanging, legs trailing behind him.
“Looks like he’s been drugged,” Esteban whispered.
I nodded in agreement. Or maybe he’s given up, I thought, the way a mouse goes limp in the teeth of a cat.
In the flickering torch light, the guards pulled the man backward spread-eagled over the altar’s flat surface, arms and legs held firmly to stretch his chest over the center of the stone. The masked priest, still chanting, raised a flat black obsidian blade over his head then plunged it into the man’s chest and pulled downward, opening a wound the size of an open hand.
“He’s done that before,” Esteban said, his knuckles white as he gripped the stone wall in front of him.
I gasped. This was more hideous than I’d imagined, and there was nothing we could do to stop it.
With one sure motion, the priest reached into the cavity, pulled out the man’s pulsing heart, raised it high for the crowds to see, and then he threw it dripping into the nearby bowl. The crowd howled as the assistant priests hurled the lifeless body down the temple stairs—it cartwheeled, slid, bounced, a pale ragdoll splattering the steps with blood. The second man, also seemingly drugged, was brought forward, and the ritual was repeated—his heart ripped out, raised on high, thrown into the bowl. His body, too, was hurled down the stairs, leaving a dark trail on the steep gray stones.
I was feeling worse than sick, but I couldn’t look away. It was like a horrible accident; I had to see it through to the end.
The third man, the apparent leader, the man who claimed to make tacos, was last. He was dragged to the altar as the chanting grew and the crowds’ frenzied shouts increased. “Despoiler! Sinaloa demon. Kill him!”
This guy didn’t seem as incapacitated as the first two. He struggled, screaming, trying to wrench away from the men holding him.
Just as the priest raised his blade over the final victim, Francisco slipped into our hiding place. “Jesús,” he said as the blade descended and the last captive’s heart was torn out. “We’ve got to get out of here now, while everyone is revved up over the ritual. If we wait, we’re screwed.”
We bolted for Mahler’s Palace to retrieve Luis, the noise of the crowd obscuring the sounds of our scrambling departure.
~ * ~
Even though it was nearly completely dark once we got off the acropolis, the trip back to headquarters was easier than our flight to reach it in the first place. For one thing, we hit a pathway maintained by the Forest Service as soon as we left the building, and for another, we knew where the Nuevo were and what they were doing.
Their sacrifices and ceremonies would keep them tied up for hours. That didn’t mean we could dawdle; it just meant we weren’t jumpy as hell every time a howler called from the nearby trees.
Once we were out of sight from the Great Plaza, Francisco dropped back to try his radio again. The reception, which he reported had been difficult earlier, must have cleared; I could hear him muttering into it. He caught up, looking relieved.
“Here’s the plan. Captain Ríos is sending men to meet us, and he wants you two where we can keep an eye on you after we arrive. You’re going to headquarters till he finds a place for you to stay. The inn is impossible. It’s like a sieve.” Francisco said.
“Just a little longer,” I said to Luis as I tucked his blanket into place. “We’re almost there.” I hope.
Luis nodded.
~ * ~
By the time we reached the park headquarters, a group had assembled on the veranda. Zoila darted across the grass and launched herself at Luis; Pat and Bill rushed toward me. For the first time in days, I felt safe as they swept me into their arms. Captain Ríos, Dr. Gomez, Jaime, and Ochoa watched from the porch steps, and after we pulled ourselves together, they hauled us into the building in a flurry of greetings.
Dr. Gomez herded Luis and Zoila into an office across the hall from the briefing room as soon as we were inside. “Time for a checkup,” she said as she closed the door.
Who knows what state he’s in, I thought, feeling guilty. He’s been through something close to hell, and it all started with a walk to clear our heads. What was I thinking?
Twenty minutes later, Luis reappeared with a bandage on his cheek, looking tired but giving a thumbs up as Zoila maneuvered his wheelchair toward a table near the front of the briefing room. Then it was my turn.
“You and Luis,” Dr. Gomez greeted me. “Two of the oldest people here, and you act like you’re in the Special Forces. Gun battles. Hand-to-hand combat. Hiding in the jungle for hours on end.” She shook her head in disbelief.
I didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t like we’d done it on purpose.
