The Snake

by J A Kellman

  I headed back to the truck. There wasn’t a lot I could do for the ceremony, but I could help Bill with Luis.

  Bill gently lifted Luis out of the cab while I hauled his wheelchair out of the bed and held it steady as Bill placed him in the chair. I fastened his seat belt and covered his knees with his purple and red blanket. He’d need it; the evening would be cool.

  “Ready?” Bill asked. “If the road was any indication, it’s going to be rough getting to the altar.”

  Luis nodded and grasped an armrest with his good hand.

  Slowly Bill wheeled Luis across the uneven ground to the gray stone altar, picking his way carefully to avoid the worst of the rugged spots.

  Everyone had been busy while we had been getting Luis settled. Esperanza and Zoila had arranged armloads of white canna lilies around the site and lit copal in the largest pottery fragments. Someone had placed clusters of tiny white candles, flickering in the evening breeze, between the cigarettes and small bottles of aguardiente on the altar; a fire had been lit in a nearby ring of stones.

  ~ * ~

  Luis sat in silence in front of the altar, his eyes closed.

  Slowly he began to chant, swaying slightly in his chair. “I ask for curing for those who protected the rest of us from harm and recovery for those who suffered during the chaos. Dispel the evil that has enveloped us all—”

  His voice dropped, blending into the sounds of the jungle as he continued to sway, his words part of the night and the place itself.

  Thick blue clouds of copal rose from the shards, coiling like the Vision Serpent into the evening air, enveloping us in thick, sweet fog. I breathed deeply, my eyes closed, abandoning myself to Luis’s voice, the incense, and the warmth of the fire.

  He must have prayed for another hour. A breeze came up, ruffling my hair, brushing my face like tiny wings. The smoke from the fire and the copal, the soft chanting, and the jungle sounds merged into an enveloping darkness, thick, soothing, curative, as if I were tucked under the soft breast of an enormous bird, or held dreaming in the cool arms of Ixchel, the moon goddess, deity of healing.

  By the time the ritual ended and the fire was reduced to embers, the goddess and her rabbit familiar sailed high in the sky; Venus trailed behind her, watching us with cool distant eyes as we headed home. I drifted with the copal between this world and the next.

  As we jolted along the dirt track to the farm, I reflected on the ancestors. First, they got me into this, and now they seem to have pulled me out. I was too tired to be amazed, too spent to do more than accept things as they were.

  The farm kitchen and the main building across the farmyard were brightly lit when we pulled in an hour later. The dog barked once or twice from the kitchen doorway, then went inside. Smoke meandered in wisps across the sky from the back of the kitchen.

  Esperanza’s mother and the other women had been busy while we were gone. The cool night air smelled of tortillas, tamales, and coffee. A cousin who had been helping in the kitchen directed us toward the scene of the meal as she carried a platter of tamales for the festivities across the yard to the main building.

  The women had been at work in there, too. Boards on sawhorses had been set up to form a long table between the family altar and the door to a bedroom. A collection of bright table clothes covered its surface; steaming platters of tamales, baskets of tortillas wrapped in serviettas, large bright squares of hand-woven cloth, bottles of soft drinks and beer crowded together along its length. A single light bulb in the center of the ceiling illuminated the space...candles on the table and altar added to the glow.

  “There’s coffee on the hearth in the kitchen,” Esperanza’s younger sister said. She held open the door for Luis as Zoila pushed his chair into the welcoming space. “I’ll bring a tray.”

  “Like a funeral, wedding, holiday—first the ritual, then the feasting,” Luis said as he surveyed the dishes. “Food nourishes us and weaves us together at the same time.” He looked tired, but the sight of the feast seemed to perk him up.

  After the last several days of deprivation, misery, and terror, the tamales were pure ambrosia: served in their cornhusks, the fresh steamed masa contained shredded pork with red chili sauce...rich and spicy. A bowl of extra sauce stood near each serving platter. Using the wrapping as plates, we ate the tamales straight from the husks, tossing the empty coverings into a basket at the end of the table when we were through.

  I licked my fingers as the juice leaked from my fourth tamale. If I could purr, I would have then. I headed back to the table for another tamale and a tortilla to sop up the extra sauce.

  The food worked its magic. By the time the tamales and tortillas had disappeared, conversation had turned from the terror of the cave and the ancestors’ fierce demands, to what was needed to preserve the site. Ochoa took out his camera.

  “You have to see this, and now is as good a time as any,” he said, as he turned on the camera. “The cave is even richer than we thought. Look at the painting! Look at the artifacts!”

  He held the camera down so Luis could see. The rest of us clustered around Luis’s chair.

  In the background of the photos Ochoa shot in the second gallery, handprints and images of rain covered the walls, the ancient rain god Chac peered from the center of the panel. Large ceramic jars, also references to water, sat along the floor. Water. It was the focus of much ancient Mayan ritual and a link with the vulture pendant left in the cave under Tikal, the city where the story of K’in A’jaw began thousands of years ago. I could feel the hair on my neck stand on end, as if a cold breeze had suddenly blown through the warm room.

  Barely visible in the light of the flash, pathways in the cave floor led toward the platform and to the altar near its base where a jumble of bones lay on the ground behind it.

  “Those may be jaguar bones. Everything was so chaotic then I didn’t see them, and it’s hard to tell in this image,” Ochoa said, squinting at his camera. “But I think I can make out a feline skull. Jaguars were special sacrifices during important rituals, as well as indicators of high-ranking officials and lords.”

  “Why a jaguar?” Pat asked.

  “The jaguar was a symbol of power, strength, ferocity; it’s the top predator in the rain forest, the ruler of its world,” Luis said.

  “I don’t believe it! Wall paintings. Water images! A jaguar!” I was stunned.

  Then everyone began talking at once.

  “We’ve got to get back in,” Ríos said. “That cave is a treasure. Nothing like it’s ever been found. Who knows what else is in there? I hope the water hasn’t scoured the place clean. But first we have to have geologists examine the site. As far as we know, the thing is a death trap. It’s going to need to be stabilized.”

  Ochoa nodded. “No way can we get in until we know we can get back out.”

  “Once things settle, you will find a way,” Luis said. “I hate to break things up, but I’ve got to go to bed, I’m exhausted.”

  “Thanks for the wonderful meal. The tamales were perfect,” Zoila said to the women seated on the bench along the back wall. She grabbed the handles of Luis’s chair and headed for the door. “It’s been a long day; we need to call it a night.”

  Ochoa slipped the camera into its case, and the women, recognizing the party was breaking up, began bustling the empty dishes from the table to the kitchen.

  Ríos yawned. “Let’s go, guys. It’s late and there’s a lot to do tomorrow, so we can reopen the park at the end of this week—assess the damage, pick up shells, make sure we have all the bodies. Then we can start thinking about the cave...” He yawned again.

  “I’ll drive, Captain,” Esteban said as the rangers started across the porch.

  Pat and I followed the men out and headed for our room.

  “I’m done,” Pat said. “The last few days have been beyond belief.”

  I grunted in assent.

  “I can hardly stand the thought of wasting time to get out of my clothes,” I said as I
took off my sneakers.

  I was asleep nearly as soon as I pulled up my blanket.

  That night I dreamed of jaguars with jeweled eyes stalking through Tikal’s main plaza and a black glassy pool rimmed with fist-sized lumps of jade. Around the pool and in between draperies of stalactites dark shadows flitted and dissipated like fog rising from the jungle. A serpent watched me from the cloud of copal mounting into the air from the far side of the pool.

  Thirty-three

  Big Grove, First Week in May

  Bill’s brother Bob drove us home from the airport outside of Big Grove, and if he was shocked by our battered appearances, he didn’t say anything. Maybe Bill had warned him.

  Spring had arrived while we were gone. Leaves had appeared on trees and shrubs, the grass was lush, and flowers bloomed in beds and porch pots.

  After settling Zoila and Luis in their apartment, we headed for Burr Oaks. The old brick buildings looked as they had when we left, except for green bushes and the freshly sprouted canopy of the red maple in front of our building. The entry way was the same, too—brass mailboxes in need of polishing, a recycle bin shoved up against the outside wall—and now with the three of us hauling bags, crowded. We hugged before we started up the stairs to our own homes, dragging our luggage behind us.

  I could hear Rosie mewing as I fiddled with my locks. As soon as I was in, she twined around my legs, churring, hopping up and down, trying to reach up as far as possible, glad to have me and not the cat sitter come through the door. I dropped my gear as she slammed into me like a tiny brown footballer. I scooped her up, pressed my face against her little whiskery cheeks, headed for my recliner, eyes filled with tears. We settled in together, Rosie kneading my chest, her muzzle in my ear, her purr blotting out everything except her squirming body, stiff whiskers, silky fur.

  I could hold her forever, I thought, pressing her close. I can’t go through something like Tikal again. It would kill me.

  Thirty-four

  Big Grove, Third Week in May

  A week after we returned, I reread the letter from St. Patrick’s parish to remind myself what they needed done. I’d called before I’d left, but I needed to phone again to set up an appointment.

  Dear Ms. Cunningham,

  The Parish Council of St. Patrick’s Catholic Church is tasked with organizing and removing our former priest’s private papers from his offices before the arrival of our new priest in July. You have been recommended as an outstanding archivist by the cousin of one of our parishioners and a friend of yours, José Polop.

  As you may recall, Father Diego Muldonado, died last autumn. Since no one in our parish has the skills to undertake the task of categorizing and dispensing his papers to appropriate destinations, we are hoping you would be willing to do so. If you are interested, please call the church office to make arrangements.

  Sincerely,

  Tomás Castillo, president of St. Patrick’s Parish Council.

  Their needs were clear. I called the church office to arrange to begin work in two weeks. That would give me time to settle into my life again and to cope with my still shaky emotional state. Bill insists it’s PTSD. I’m not so sure. Maybe I’m just tired.

  Later that evening, as I sat with Rosie warm and heavy on my lap, it occurred to me that I’d just accepted another job where my skills were required after someone had been murdered. Strange. I’d become a compiler of violently shortened lives—sifting through papers of the suddenly deceased—trying to make sense of the jumbled papers and scraps, partial messages, old lists, diaries. It was like being a forensic pathologist reading someone’s remains like a catalog.

  Maybe I should mention something on my business cards, “Specializing in the papers of murder victims, or the suddenly departed—” Rosie stretched and yawned, turned, settled again. Ruston was the last such job, and look where that went. Tikal. Drug cartels. The Nuevo. Kidnapping. Gun battles. Heart excision. What incriminating material could possibly turn up in a priest’s papers? I asked myself, sipping the last of my whiskey.

  Father Diego’s murder hadn’t been solved, and some people had even begun to suggest it had merely been a random act of violence, not something more sinister. I wasn’t so sure—neatly placed .22 bullets didn’t sound like a mugging gone wrong.

  ~ * ~

  That same week Pat, Bill, and I settled back into our regular pattern of BYO Friday night cocktails. We were still kicking around Ruston’s murder as the beginning of the problems in Tikal, at least as far as we were concerned.

  We didn’t have anything specific regarding his demise...like proof of who killed him—but after seeing Kan’s performance on the pyramid steps, we could guess. Kan knew how to carry out a ritual sacrifice, and whoever killed Rustin had done everything right—scaffold, arrows, heart excision.

  “But how about Polop?” Pat asked. “He got home in one piece, half nuts, but alive.”

  “I don’t know, but maybe being Maya they didn’t feel they could kill him right away—or possibly they were saving him for a more propitious moment, you know, Venus rising in the morning sky, or some big social event like a lord taking his seat or throne,” I said.

  “But both kidnappings were about the Nuevos’ solidifying their vision of a new Mayan world with Kan as its lord,” I added. “Our turning up with the vulture pendant was a dream come true.”

  “We walked into their fantasies with our eyes closed.” Bill shook his head in disbelief. “Jesus, there we were with their ancient symbol of lordship dangling from our fingers.”

  Thirty-five

  Big Grove, Same Week

  I pulled in next to the parish hall at nine o’clock Monday morning next to the only car in St. Patrick’s parking lot. The sky was clear, the sun warm, and wisps of cirrus clouds, like strands of spun sugar, drifted over Big Grove on their way east toward Indiana.

  The red brick hall could have been mistaken for a small grade school, and even though the hall lights were off, the double doors were unlocked. The office was to the left of the entry. A small woman, her black hair in a ponytail, sat behind the crowded desk.

  “Hi. I’m Ann and you must be Irma, the woman I spoke with on the phone,” I said as I stepped into the room.

  She stood to greet me, smiling. “Buenos días, señora, I’m the church secretary, Irma Villa Lobos. We are so happy to have you,” she said, extending her hand. “We haven’t known what to do with Father’s papers. We desperately need your expertise before the new priest arrives. He said he’d like to move his own things in right away.

  “Father Diego’s offices have just stayed as they were since he died, since things are pretty quiet here except on Sundays, or when we have parish council meetings,” she added, pulling a ring of keys from her desk. “Now there’s a rush with the priest arriving in a few weeks.

  “Is there anything you would like to know before you start?” she asked, slipping on her sweater. “Otherwise, we can go over to the rectory now. I’ll show you around.”

  “Has anything new been uncovered about Father Diego’s murder?” I asked, more to make conversation than anything else, as we headed for the rectory’s back door.

  “Nothing. At least the police haven’t said anything. It’s as if it never happened.” She slid her key into the lock. “I don’t know if we’ll ever hear anything.”

  “Since we have supply priests who come on Sundays then leave, there hasn’t been any reason to clear Father Diego’s things out till now. No one uses the rectory or his office in the parish hall, either. The house has been cleaned, of course, and his clothes given away, but his library and his really personal things—he didn’t have any family—are still here. No one has the heart to dispose of them. His laptop is still with the police,” she added as we stepped inside.

  The small rear entry was tidy—doormats vacuumed, checkered curtain on the door freshly laundered and ironed—and the kitchen beyond was spotless and empty. Irma switched on lights as she guided me toward the short hall that led
toward the front of the house.

  “The library was his inner sanctum. He spent hours in here reading and writing,” Irma said as she unlocked the heavy oak door to the left of the entry.

  “We starting locking it after he was murdered; I’m not sure why. It just seemed safer that way.” She pushed open the door and switching on the library lights. “Silly. Who’d want a dead priest’s papers?” she asked, crossing herself.

  “Make yourself comfortable. If you need anything, let me know. Here are the keys to his desk and file.” Irma turned to leave. “I’ll be in the office till four-thirty.”

  The library must have been added after the house was built, since it protruded beyond the house’s square floor plan, and the two windows at either end were larger than those in the original building. Built-in shelves lined with books covered the walls from floor to ceiling, except for a small wooden file cabinet behind the desk and a tiny bar to the right of the door. A single crystal glass still stood on its glass top. I sniffed it. It had been washed, but the cabinet below was still stocked—an expensive port, a pricey scotch, gin. For a Franciscan, he was living well.

  A well-used mahogany desk, bare except for a green banker’s lamp, wooden file tray, and an old-fashioned desk blotter, faced the door. Two library chairs shared a lamp and side table with a large ashtray in front of a window to the right of the door. Traces of cigar smoke still hovered in the air. He must have smoked in here often if I could smell it six months later. It reminded me of Ruston’s study.

  I settled into Father Diego’s chair after retrieving my materials from the RAV4. Might as well clear the desk top first, then the drawers, then the file cabinet, then end with the books if they wanted them removed, too. I’d have to clarify that point with Irma.

  The desktop file tray held notes for a homily and the rough draft of a letter describing a parish fund drive meant to begin last February.